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Are You Smarter Than a 2nd Grader?Bonnie BurnellIn the seventh grade, my teacher announced the homework assignment: Create a family tree. As an adopted kid trying to fit in, this threw me into a mild panic. Which tree? Which family? What would my friends say when I tried to explain the complicated? Even then, I was conflicted about which tree I was supposed to climb when I was told to go looking for ancestors. I can't remember talking to my parents, but I clearly recall talking to my teacher and explaining my dilemma. She was flexible and helped me figure out another project I could do to satisfy the assignment. I remember feeling certain about the inability to trace the family tree of my adoptive family; it seemed right and wrong at the same time. I remember feeling certain about telling the teacher. And I can remember feeling certain that I was different. Jump to the future, 30 years or so, and like one of those dreams where you forget to study for a major exam or have shown up for class fully unprepared — there I was facing this assignment all over again. This time however, I am the reunited adult adoptee and involved parent of a 7-year-old second-grader.
Homework is often a charged situation between parent and child on an ordinary weeknight, with ordinary reading, (w)riting and ‘rithmetic; but this is no ordinary assignment. I realize I have to step away from the conversation. I quietly and tearfully confide in my husband that my feelings were incredibly bruised and could he please help our son see the connection and resemblances between he and his mother. My considerate husband was successful in gently ushering our son to recognizing that yes, we are both tall, both have an oval face, and yes, even the freckles. Though not the avenue I would have chosen, it was a relief and a reassurance that my son finally arrived at the destination I had hoped. I reflected on this for days, struggling with my reaction and the emotional turmoil a seemingly simple second-grade assignment could evoke in me, and the ever present awareness of how these issues for those of us who are adopted are never far from the surface. I was anxious to focus on the routine math, reading and spelling homework – task‐oriented and emotion‐free. All seemed to be fine, until the next chapter in social studies delivered a new challenge. My son was now tasked with an assignment called: “How My Family Came to America”. His job was to identify an ancestor who was born in another country and learn how that person came to America, what they brought with them and stories relating their travel and photos of the person. The kids were to design a poster and be able to present to their classmates what they had learned. My immediate reaction took me back to seventh grade: Which tree should we climb? Would my son’s friends find him to be different because of my unusual family? I was caught up in my worry, when my husband casually mentions that his grandfather came to the U.S. from what was once known as Czechoslovakia and that his sister had all the family photos. I sat by and watched the two of them work on this project, envious of this straightforward lineage, but happy in a way someone not adopted cannot understand, that my son will never know what it means to not know where you come from. Again, this had a tremendous impact on me and I stewed about it for days. Again, wanting to move on, I scanned his weekly homework list, anticipating the pleasantly mundane math and spelling. Instead, I immediately see the instructions that he is to complete another "How My Family Came to America" project, for the other side of the family. My heart sank. My mind raced. Which tree? Which family? I agonized for days over this and found myself spinning with no solution. I felt naturally inclined to research the family tree of my biological family, graciously and immediately shared with me upon reunion with my birth family. But then I immediately felt guilty for not automatically thinking to research my adoptive family. I felt I could not win; to choose my birth family felt disloyal; to choose my adoptive family did not feel authentic. Then I got practical; who could I actually research? Despite my emotional rant, there was a job to be done and a due date. That’s when I realized I had a new dilemma. Yet again, I felt like that seventh-grader who certainly feels different. It slowly dawned on me as I scanned the various branches of my family; both of my families presented obstacles. One branch is a dead end; and I didn’t even consider trying to climb the branch of my unknown birth father, a limb of my family tree much in need of tending. After much angst, I again decided to reach out to the teacher, and like my seventh-grade teacher 30 years ago, she was willing to be flexible. If only it were so simple. Offline, in a face‐to‐face conversation, I came to learn that I was not the only parent in the class to approach her; another parent in my son’s class is also an adoptee and wrote a scathing email about these family history assignments, chastising her for such a limited‐view approach to social studies and family history. It is always easiest to shoot the messenger, in this case the teacher. However, I learned that my son’s teacher was doing exactly what she is required to do; teach according to the standards set forth by the State of California. This assignment was not her creation, nor was it her intent to exclude anyone. The limited view was part of a much larger picture.
As my son and I completed this project, I realized how much internal processing I had engaged in by this point, and all I could think is that I wanted to not think about this anymore. And, I realized that despite my years of struggling with it, I suddenly loved math. I am done. Or so I think. A few days later, I was sharing with a co‐worker the progression of these assignments and how they triggered such strong emotional responses for me, when a friend, who knows my adoption‐search‐reunion story, walked in mid‐story. Seeing her puzzled look, I backed up and recapped the story. When I tried to explain the consternation I felt about trying to choose which tree to climb and also the added complication of how to best explain my unique family circumstances to my son, she blurted out, “He's 7, just make it up!” Normally, I am not a confrontational person. Normally, I think before I speak. Normally, I don't blow up. That day was different. I confronted her. I spewed angry words without thinking. And, I blew up. I was appalled that as a 43-year-old person who has reunited with her birth family, there still exists the expectation to maintain secrets, or the assumption that where we come from really does not matter. I really want to leave this behind me, but cannot because it is much larger than just my son and I. In the litany of family history assignments, I learned that the lessons originate from the “History‐Social Science Content Standards for California Public School: Kindergarten through Grade Twelve” Adopted by the California State Board of Education, October 1998. Click here to view.
As I indicated, it’s easiest to shoot the messenger, but in this case, I believe we have to look at who sent the messenger. Looking back to 1978 when I was 11 and in seventh grade, I am more inclined to accept that the view of what a family structure should look like was much more limited. But in 2011, in the state of California, known to be incredibly diverse, it is disappointing to find that the perpetuation of California Thinking beyond the uncounted thousands of adopted children and adopted persons in California because the adoption industry is unregulated, and because states are not required to report adoptions, the actual figures are not known (see the research from the Adoption Institute here), consider the children conceived through artificial insemination, families separated by divorce, step‐parent, same gendered parent families, and blended families; and the thousands of children living in the foster care system. Consider the families separated by miles in our increasingly mobile society. I heard from other parents with children in my son’s class who do not have the adoption factor, how difficult it was to complete these family ancestry homework assignments ‐ they were frustrated without the added emotional issue of feeling they just don’t fit the mold. They expressed that they don’t have the oral history, the photos, or the information. While I felt better finding out that I was not the only one muddling through how to help my son complete his work; it underscored the need to re-evaluate how we do things. Knowing who we are and where we come from is critically important. However, it’s time that we embrace new, innovative and more inclusive ways to look at how we define what a family should look like; and apply some new creativity to our methods used to learn about our history. As an adopted person, I am fully aware that others cannot appreciate the impact of being and feeling so different in this way. The idea of a ‘normal’ family is certainly a misnomer at best, but as adopted persons, we have not only unusual family circumstances, but we are also living with the incredibly complicated dynamic of having two families where one is often kept a secret most of our lives and, for some, forever. Educators and officials in my home state of California seemingly place a high value on family history; obviated by the inclusion and perpetuation of these standards; but yet deny me, as an adopted person, access to my original identity by preventing me from access to my original birth certificate. Looking back 30 years, I can’t remember what the substitute assignment was in seventh grade. What I do remember ‐ vividly ‐ is the humanity and understanding my teacher showed to me. I also recall the certainty I felt that I couldn’t go along blindly; that my story was different and that it was important to differentiate myself and communicate this to my teacher. I needed a way to tell my story that made sense for me.
Bonnie Burnell is an adoptee and after a 22+ yr long search, Bonnie is in reunion with siblings, cousins and aunts and uncles from her birth mother's family. Bonnie is a member of PACER and the AAC and has been a presenter at the last two AAC conferences.
She is a university administrator, working directly with students and lives in Northern California with her husband and son.
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| Newsletter - July 2012 |
About 18 months into my reunion with my birth family, and having found a fractured tree at best, my son brings home an assignment where he is asked to compare the similarities among living organisms. This is fine, exciting even, when comparing rocks, trees, leaves and plants. The natural progression of course is for my son to compare the similarities between him and his parents. For an adopted person, having a child is often the first occurrence of meeting and knowing a biological relative. In this context, the anticipation that my son will see all the resemblances between us is palpable and undeniable. As he completes the project, he has identified no less than five similarities between he and his father; which of course exist [they are related too!] and naturally the boy‐father bond is strong at this age. But when I try [ever so gently] to point out that he and I are both tall, a feature of his that always draws comments, he simply replies that, ”dad is tall too,” and when I point out that he and I both have dark brown hair, his answer is that his hair is "really more like dad's." I get desperate and go for the freckles he and I have in common, and suddenly he is in complete denial about said freckles. At this point the adopted person who has longed to look like someone is emotional and reactive.
In the end, I decided that we would not opt out; and so decided to research my birth family’s history, and in the process we all learned some fascinating information that I was grateful to learn. My great great grandfather ran for the U.S. Senate against Hiram Johnson! In the end, all was not lost.
